Scarlet
by The Mishmosh Bird
Summary: When I was a young child, grandfather gave me a sword. It was a sharp, pointed thing and it shone like tempered flame. I thought it was prettier than mother's diamond jewellery. I rarely sheathed my blade. Why should I? It was presented to me for use. Its edges were red-tinted by this time. The day I noticed the red colouring I named my blade, Scarlet...


**Hello people.**

 **I originally wrote this thing for a class assignment. But when I finished it and read it over, I couldn't help but think** ** _this is so Damian_** **. Obviously, I changed it somewhat, so it fits better but please duly note that there** ** _is no actual_** **scarlet sword. The reason why is this; the purpose of the original assignment was to chose an object and write about it metaphorically. If anyone is interested in the original copy, it will be posted on my profile ... eventually.**

 **Disclaimer; I no own.**

 **Without further ado,**

 ** _SCARLET_**

 ** _By The Mishmosh Bird_**

When I was a young child, grandfather gave me a sword. It was a sharp, pointed thing and it shone like tempered flame. I thought it was prettier than mother's diamond jewellery.

I've cut myself on accident many times, of course. I was young after all. At first, grandfather and mother had little energy and attention to spare for me, but I learned from them what I could. I used to set up targets for myself. Wooden things. Stubby, ugly things. I would pass my sharp, pointed blade through them once, twice, leaving scars, precise and straight. I used to run my chubby fingers across the marks left by my thin, pointy sword. And I'd smile.

Mother and grandfather soon saw my potential. My days filled with conditioning and endurance exercises on top of my usual academics. Dawn till dusk, I was either on my feet scaling the menacing Mount. Edna, on my back, counting fifty, sixty, seventy sit-ups or cross-legged in front of my politics tutor listing the pros and cons of communism. My favourite moments were when grandfather taught me swordplay. My eyes would trail the deadly, delicate sword as it twirled and danced in my hand. Everyday pushed me to my limits, and everyday people told me that I was exceptional.

I learned later that I wasn't the only one with a glittering blade. But prideful, I am to say, that mine was by far the sharpest. It was the only one capable of cutting through bone.

Then there were those without any sword at all. They slumped through their days with their heads down. Straight precise scars ran down their limbs. Puddles and trails of scarlet followed them like footprints. Utterly pathetic.

I rarely sheathed my blade. Why should I? It was presented to me for use. Its edges were red-tinted by this time. A majestic and graceful thing. The day I noticed the red colouring, I named my blade Scarlet Flame.

Then Deathstroke arrived. Burned my home to the ground. He decimated our defenses, killing with utter nondiscrimination.

He slayed my grandfather. My grandfather, who had only recently celebrated his 456th birthday. My grandfather, the Demon's Head, the immortal leader of the League of Assassins.

For me, it was a stark reminder that not even the best men were invincible. Mother did the only think she could think of. She brought me to Gotham. To father.

Up until then, I had only ever heard my father spoken of, and in revered tones at that. I had not ever seen him, nor him me and I'd bet good money that he knew naught of my existence. I suppose I ought to have been nervous, but that emotion had been trained out of me long ago. Instead I felt a vague sense of satisfaction and anticipation of receiving a gift long withheld.

* * *

Father did everything differently. While Mother expected me to be up at dawn and training, no excuses, Father seemed surprised to find me hacking at his numerous plant figures in the early light of the day. Well, it wasn't like he allowed me free access to his coveted cave. And the figures were ugly anyway. Mother and Grandfather always made me train until dark, and forced me to bed right after. Father, on the other hand, had me train far less in comparison and encouraged me to take breaks, yet he expects me to be awake and alert well after nightfall. I was the only child when I lived with Mother and Grandfather. Here, I suddenly had a sister and three brothers, only one of whom, the circus clown no less, actually showed their face. I would have thought that a new sibling warrants some interest. Of course, I was the only blood child, so I suppose I still am an only child.

None of that, however, prepared me for the expectations Father had for me when I fight. He told me, ordered me, not to use my beautiful, gleaming blade.

It was an easy rule to follow, at first. The thugs, lowlife and scum are undeserving to taste my sword's steel. I wouldn't have wanted their unworthy blood staining it anyway. Then it got harder. I realized that when Father forbade me from using my sword, he forbade me from killing as well. To kill. To end someone. To watch as the light drain from their eye as their very being is extinguished. To feel the warm gush of red that pours from them. To follow my instinct, ingrained in me from infancy.

Father didn't understand what he was asking for. That's what I had thought. He didn't understand that he was asking me to deny, shun, a crucial part of myself. That he was requesting I lay down my scarlet sword forever.

Who was he to tell me what to do, anyway? Who was he to forbade these things when it could so easily solve so many of his problems? Put a stop to the revolving doors of Arkham. I'm doing him a favor. If he's too weak to kill, the least he could do would be to step aside so I may perform the deed. He'll see sense in time. But for now, I suppose, he sets the rules.

* * *

Deathstroke made another appearance. I had been watching him converse with Father on his screen when … was that Mother? She had been brutally beaten. Her body hung limply from their chains, with numerous cuts, still bleeding red. Deathstroke lifted her head up by the hair and I saw that one of her eyes had swollen shut, the other barely open. A chill ran through me. Mother had bested me in all our hand-to-hand spares. She was incredibly skilled physically and even more so of the mind. And Deathstroke had defeated her soundly. Fought her and won. What chance have I? What can I do to avenge her?

I hadn't wanted to admit it to myself then, but there was another reason for my unease, a sentimental one. Mother was all I had. The Dojo lies in ruins as my immortal grandfather's corpse festers beneath the ground. If Mother were to … die … I'd have lost everything of my old life.

At least father was here. A sudden urge to embrace him washed over me, but I shoved it back. This was not the time to be weak.

In that moment I had decided. Father's rule be damned. If it took my Scarlet Flame to take Deathstroke down, then it was time my gleaming blade saw light.

I knew that Deathstroke sought me out specifically, I was no fool. He wished to bait me. To lead me into a trap. I will make him regret that wish.

* * *

Nothing, nothing was even vaguely comparable to the eventual battle between Deathstroke and I. His strikes were as fast as the snake he is, his every move, like dancing silk, unrivaled in their grace, except, maybe, by father. His blows were powerful enough to send vibrations through my very bones and brutal enough that they would pierce my skull. I barely held my own and was once again thankful for Grandfather's Itami regime. It was the only reason I was able to fight through the agony of being pierced through both wrists.

I was going to kill him. I had planned on it. And my conviction gave me the strength I need. Deathstroke soon lay helpless, at the end of Scarlet Flame.

Seconds before I was about to strike, Deathstroke said something that struck me to the core, "Go ahead, finish me. You were train to kill your enemies weren't you?!... It's what you want, it's what I would do, it's what your grandfather would do..."

It was then, only then, that it occurred to me … what a child I had been. I've always scoffed at those who viewed the world in black and white. Good and evil. Idiots the lot of them. Everything, everything is a matter of perspective. There are only shades of gray. Uncertain and undecided until the moment society hail them as hero or condemn them as villains. Only a fool of the most ignorant sort would ever believe otherwise. But I realized right then that I had fallen into the same trap. I'd allowed

myself to believe that the world were made up of two sort of people. The strong...and the weak. And I had thought that me … my family, mother, grandfather...we were strong. But everyone else? Pathetic. Defenseless. Weaklings. But this notion is every bit as ridiculous as believing in pure good and pure evil. But I'd believed it … and in my belief, I saw nothing wrong in ridding the world of those too weak. Those who fell to Scarlet Flame.

Strength and weakness come in all forms, shows up in strange and different ways. Father … he is strong. His refusal to kill wasn't born of reluctance, or pity, or weakness. No, it was nothing less than an incredible, astonishing show of will and control.

I decided that I'm going to be strong as well.

Justice.

Not vengeance.

Just like father always said.

I cast away Scarlet Flame. Felt more than saw it's glittering blade fall, tailing light like splintered diamonds. I looked Deathstroke in the eye and told him,

"No, I'm my father's son too. I'm Robin."

I walked away from his prone form.

* * *

 **To those who are wondering what the heck an _Itami_ _Regime_ is, itami is Japanese for pain (thank you google translate!). So basically, I was trying to say pain endurance training or something of the like. Heh heh.**

 **I know I didn't stick too close to the comics, but I've never read them, so meh.**

 **How'd I do with Damian's characterization? Did I get him right?**

 **Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear from you! A review makes my day, even if you said something like, "Good story."**

 **~Bird**

 _ **Edited; June 29th 2016 12:44pm**_


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